


Norman Rockwell, Eat Your Heart Out

by dancingloki



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Baking, Cooking, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-01
Updated: 2014-05-01
Packaged: 2018-01-21 13:09:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1551596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancingloki/pseuds/dancingloki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve wouldn't have believed that Bucky could even light a stove, much less bake like a champ.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Norman Rockwell, Eat Your Heart Out

Before the war, Steve would have bet you _anything_ that Bucky could barely light a stove, much less prepare an actual meal. And the odds of culinary school being part of The Winter Soldier’s ‘training’ were well on zero. Yet here he was, sitting at the kitchen table while Bucky placed an _entire chicken_ in front of him.

On a serving platter. With garnishing herbs, artfully arranged around it. It looked _sculpted_. It looked like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. It was golden-brown and _glistening_. Steve’s mouth was watering.

The rest of the spread was just as enticing; the smell of roast potatoes wafted over the table, lightly seasoned with a “secret” mixture of herbs and some kind of special salt Bucky’d gotten from somewhere. Steam rose from the napkin covering a basket of home-baked rolls.

Bucky carved the chicken expertly, slicing the bird apart with a delicate touch. Steve grinned and held up his plate as Bucky extended the serving fork, offering him a large chunk of breast meat with the skin—his favorite cut. Bucky took both legs and a wing, and they served out the rest of the dishes.

They chatted comfortably as they ate. Bucky had laid a strict injunction against ‘shop talk’ at the dinner table, so they only talked about casual things. About the weather, about Sam’s latest misadventures with that guy he was chasing, about the progression of Bucky’s efforts to befriend the stray cat in the alley behind their apartment building. Steve loved having someone there every day, someone to talk to, even more than he loved the lavish meals Bucky prepared.

When the chicken was devoured—thank god for the government stipend, two genetically engineered super-soldiers could put away a _lot_ —Bucky stretched his hand out, waving at Steve to stay seated when he moved to start clearing the table. He vanished into the kitchen, grinning over his shoulder, then re-emerged with a covered plate.

He whipped the cover off the dish with a flourish. Steve just about melted into his chair when he caught the first whiff.

“Oh, _Bucky_ ,” he sighed, leaning forward.

“It’s still your favorite, right?” Bucky grinned, cutting a slice and passing it over. Steve dug his fork eagerly into the confection, stuffing a huge piece into his mouth.

The apple cake was perfect, moist and spongy. Steve could taste hints of cinnamon and clove, and Bucky had even sprinkled a light dusting of powdered sugar on top. Steve’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he devoured the rest of his slice in two more bites. Bucky laughed and cut him another one.

“Oh, my god, thank you.” Steve took another bite from his new piece, savoring it this time. “I gotta ask, what’s the occasion?”

“Like I need a special reason to treat my best guy,” Bucky teased.

“I better be your only guy,” Steve said pointedly. Bucky rolled his eyes.

“Shut your jealous mouth and eat your stupid cake, Rogers.”

“How am I supposed to eat with my mouth sh—ow!” Bucky kicked him under the table. Steve laughed and dug into the second slice of cake.

Like the rolls, the apple cake was hand-made from scratch. Baking seemed to be Bucky’s particular specialty. The day’s presentation was only the latest in a long string of pastries; cakes, pies, cookies, and so on. When they had company, he’d create more elaborate desserts, intricately decorated tiramisu,  delicate shaped and braided cookies. When it was just him and Steve, he stuck to simple, wholesome dishes, things they’d grown up eating. Rich chocolate devil’s food, or pineapple upside-down cake.

Steve loved to sit in the kitchen while Bucky baked. The smells were heavenly, but mostly he just loved watching Bucky move. He’d kept that sparse, controlled grace; he moved around the kitchen almost like he was dancing, with perfect balance, not a single motion wasted. Everything, every bowl, every spoon, placed exactly where it would be most efficiently used. Bucky _flowed_ , non-stop, through the room until every task was complete, the pan or tray popped into the oven. Then he’d collapse into a chair next to Steve, grinning that charming, crooked grin, and Steve would lean forward and brush away a trace of flour from his cheek, or tease him about the brightly-colored scrunchies he’d use to pull his hair back, or just grab hold of his hand and sit there, quietly, stroking his thumb over the back of his knuckles.

When the alarm went off, Bucky would grab the pan straight from the oven. He didn’t even bother with hot pads, instead expertly balancing the finished creation with his metal hand. He’d fend off Steve’s attacks, scolding him and chasing him out of the kitchen to wait until whatever it was had cooled and the finishing touches applied.

Even something as simple as chocolate chip cookies had some extra _something_. The balance of vanilla in the batter, the ratio of chips per cookie volume, _something_ about them was somehow _better_ than any other version Steve had ever tasted. Or it might just be the hearts in Steve’s eyes distracting him.

Either way, they made for one hell of a Saturday afternoon. Bucky plopped down the plate of cookies onto the living room table. Steve was already settled in on the couch for their Star Trek marathon. They’d made it all the way through the original, and were about halfway into The Next Generation.

“You’re gonna want milk with these, right?” Bucky called over his shoulder as he headed back to the kitchen.

“The hell good are chocolate chip cookies without milk?” Steve yelled back. He heard Bucky snort in the other room over the sound of clinking glasses.

Bucky came back in, a glass in each hand, and passed one to Steve before flopping down on the couch next to him. “Which episode were we on, again?” he asked, reaching for the remote. When a long moment went by without an answer, he looked over.

Steve was staring at him, clutching the glass, his face befuddled.

“What?” Bucky’s brow furrowed. “Steve? You okay?”

“Are we…are we out?”

“Out of what? The hell are you talking about?”

“Bucky, there’s, like, an inch of milk here.”

“What?” Bucky looked at his glass, at Steve’s, did a double-take. “That’s so weird. I guess I was on autopilot. Here, give it back, I’ll go get more.”

As promised, he returned with the glasses full of milk, setting them carefully down on the table, and cuddled up to Steve’s side, still frowning.

“That’s so strange,” he murmured.

“It is strange,” Steve agreed, sorting through the DVD menu.

“Why would I do that? Who does that?”

“Jerks, probably.”

Steve wrapped his arm around Bucky’s shoulders; Bucky seized the opportunity to put an elbow in Steve’s ribs.

The cookies were delicious.

**Author's Note:**

> the milk thing
> 
> never be over it, never


End file.
